A Menagerie of Poetry
by Marie1964
Summary: "We have a new mission from London," Hogan informed his men, who were gathered around him by the radio. "We're having a poetry contest." What happens when the characters read poems about themselves?
1. Chapter 1

"A what?" all four of them asked in unison.

Even Hogan had to reread the message on the paper that Kinch had written down. While his eyes scanned the paper, his mind was trying to decide if that was all there was to it, or if there was a secret message hidden somewhere inside it. _Wouldn't be the first time_ he thought to himself. "Are you sure you wrote down the right message? It seems odd that London would be asking us to hold a poetry contest, instead of blowing up the nearest bridge or supply depot."

"Well, London did tell us that the author, Marie1964, did write it during a moment of boredom in her college Health class one day. Though, to be honest—"

"She should be paying attention, and not thinking up poetry?" Hogan asked, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"But school can be so ruddy boring sometimes! Besides, it would be a nice change for 'er," Newkirk replied in a counter argument.

"Oui, especially after what she and her friend did to you in her story 'Layers of Reality.' It's a wonder mon Colonel hasn't taken her to FanFic Court after you were brainwashed!" LeBeau exclaimed, placing his arm around his friend.

"Louis, do me a favor—don't remind me. That was two whole months ago, and I'm feeling fine now."

Suddenly, all four men looked over at the one member of the team who hadn't said anything, which could only mean the world had stopped spinning. "Yes?" he asked innocently.

"Carter, you 'aven't spoken a word since Kinch got that message. Is everything all right?" Newkirk asked, trying his best to hide the worry in his voice. A silent Carter was hardly ever the sign of a healthy Carter.

"Well, I was just thinking about what else she's done to us. Boy, can you believe she turned us into—"

However, Carter was quickly made quiet by Newkirk clamping his hand over his friend's mouth. "Ssh! You know that everybody isn't into the supernatural. We don't want to scare the readers away before they've even seen the poem."

"Newkirk's right, you know," Hogan said in agreement. So with that, and after Newkirk removed his hand from his friend's mouth, they read on…

British

Loyal Friend

"It's A Disease"

Expert Pickpocket and Safecracker

First One to Question Plans

Magician and Circus Performer

"Lack of Practice"

Criminal Activities

Newkirk

"Hey, it's about you!" Carter said happily. "See, I told you that even though she likes beating you up sometimes, that you're her favorite character."

"Favorite? She couldn't 'ave thought of a two word phrase other than 'Criminal Activities?'"

"Maybe she isn't referring to your past, mon ami. After all, your talents are très useful. Look—she wrote down 'Expert Pickpocket and Safecracker.'"

"Yeah, but she also wrote down me saying 'It's A Disease' from that 'Nights in Shining Armor' episode," Newkirk replied in a semi-pout.

"Well, you _did_ say it. And you were cheating that time," Hogan flatly pointed out.

"I suppose I was," he replied somewhat sheepishly. "But still—why did she 'ave to bring up that Gretel incident? It's like she thinks I 'aven't learned me lesson about not bringing strange birds into the tunnels."

"But that was a very memorable episode, for all of us. Besides, if anything it should remind you not to bring strange girls into the tunnels," Hogan replied, staring at Newkirk with a slightly stern expression registering on his face.

"But boy, I don't understand this poem. It doesn't look like any that London has ever sent to us," Carter spoke up, studying the poem in a quizzical manner.

"That's because it's a diamond poem. The rules are that the first line is supposed to be one word, and that each line has one additional word until the poet reaches the fourth line. Then, the poem gets shorter. Lines #1 and #7 are supposed to be a noun. Lines #2 and #6 are supposed to be two adjectives, Lines #3 and #5 are supposed to be three '-ing' words, and finally Line #4 is supposed to be four words about the subject," Kinch said, breaking down the small poem.

"But this poem isn't like that at all! It 'as nine lines, and none of the rules were followed. Blimey, you'd think that if she's going to write about me, she would at least get the rules right."

"London _did_ say she was in class at the time, so maybe she temporarily forgot the rules," Hogan commented.

"I think it's a very good poem, Pierre. All it needs is some music, and it would make a wonderful song."

"I agree with LeBeau," both sergeants said in unison.

"Well, she did write about me first," Newkirk proudly triumphed. "And she did talk about an 'appier part of me past. I wonder what else she's come up with?"

"I have to admit that I'm wondering the same thing. But for now, you better keep your poem where the Krauts can't see it. We don't need Klink or Schultz reading that line about us making plans, or your talents being used."

With that, Newkirk folded his small treasure into his RAF jacket, while the rest of the men could only wonder what would come through the radio next.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sir, we've got another poem," Kinch said, as all five men were gathered around the tunnels.

"It's about time," Newkirk replied. "Is it from the same author again?"

Kinch handed the poem, written on his customary sheet of blue paper, to Hogan. "No, this time it's from another author- Crystal Rose of Pollux," the commanding officer said. "Apparently, Marie is opening this to all authors who wish to contribute a poem about us."

"_All_ authors?" Newkirk asked, his eyes glancing around the room. "Blimey, I just 'ope they don't write anything bad or incriminating about us!"

Kinch, getting up from the radio, could only place a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I wouldn't be worried about that, Peter. I think the authors know better than that, especially since they know what could happen if they did."

"Oui, but I for one am not looking forward to going back to FanFic Court," LeBeau replied.

The rest of the men could only nod their heads in agreement.

"Well, what does it say?" Carter inquired. He looked over at his friends, who he could tell were equally curious about the contents of the poem.

Upon hearing his sergeant's question, Hogan read out loud:

Luft Stalag Thirteen—  
Houses its secrets like the  
Pearl in an oyster

Upon reading it, all of the men couldn't help but smile. It was a secretive smile, one that few people would understand: a smile that said they couldn't agree more.

"It's a beautiful poem," LeBeau said, breaking out into another smile. "But who is going to keep this one?"

"I think I'll hang onto it," Hogan replied.

He then turned to his second-in-command. "Kinch, radio London again. Make sure they get the word out that, apparently, we _are_ holding a poetry contest."

With that, Kinch got to work, while the rest of the men could only wonder who would contribute a poem next.


	3. Chapter 3

Kinch's smile grew as he decoded and wrote down the details of the latest message London was sending. So Newkirk must present the note? After several more minutes, the message was complete and London signed off. Kinch put his headphones aside and grinned as he re-read the transmission he had transcribed. This is gonna be fun! he thought as he formulated a plan to get the note into Newkirk's hands. Satisfied, he headed for the barracks. 

Colonel Hogan came out of his quarters at the same moment Kinch came up through the bunk tunnel entrance. Hogan made a bee line for the stove, where he poured himself a cup of coffee. He glanced over at his second in command as the tunnel bunk slammed shut. 

"Any word from London, Kinch?" 

"Nothing important Colonel," replied Kinch with a straight face. "All seems quiet for now." 

Kinch noticed Newkirk getting up from his seat at the table and he had to move fast. He shifted quickly to his right and 'accidentally' smacked right into Newkirk, knocking him off balance. "Oh sorry buddy!" Kinch grabbed Newkirk to steady him and surreptitiously slipped the note into the Brit's pants pocket. 

"Blimey Kinch! Why dontcha watch where yer goin' mate?" 

Kinch held his hands up defensively, "Sorry Peter! I didn't see you get up." 

"Well okay mate. No damage done." Newkirk grinned at his friend and turned to head to the stove for some coffee. He pulled out a ciggie on the way and reached into his pocket for his lighter. He found something else. " 'ey what's this?" He pulled the note out and gave it a quick read through. 

Hogan had been headed back to his quarters and turned back at Newkirk's call. 

"'ey Gov'nor! It's for you!" Newkirk waved a piece of paper in the air as he approached Hogan. The Colonel turned back and took the note from his English Corporal. He moved to the table and the men gathered round. 

"It's another poem!" exclaimed Hogan. 

Carter leaned in. "Who's this one about?" 

The Colonel looked at his men. "It's a tanka. And apparently it's about me this time." 

"Let's 'ear it then!" Newkirk was glad it was going to be about someone other than himself this time. 

Hogan sighed and began reading.

Colonel, Commander, Father, Uncle, Brother.  
Watching, inspecting and choosing the right men.  
He always protects his men.  
Secretly planning, plotting, always to con Klink.  
He is Hogan. Papa Bear.

"Incroyable!" exclaimed LeBeau. "That is true mon Colonel!" 

Hogan shook his head, embarrassed. 

"Who wrote that?" Carter wanted to know. 

LeBeau took the paper from Hogan's hand. "It says that 'whirlyite's sister' is the author." 

"Maybe that means they'll be another story in the works then?" asked Kinch. 

"Bloody Nora! I 'ope not! I barely survived 'er last one!" Newkirk cried. 

The men all laughed at the undisguised fear in the Brit's voice. 

"Well hopefully the only thing we have to look forward to is another poem!" said the Colonel, as he took the paper from LeBeau and put it in his pocket. "Okay fellas, let's get ready for lights out!"

_AN: Nothing has been edited by the publisher, Marie1964._


	4. Chapter 4

Kinch was on radio watch that night after roll call, and he was bored and sleepy. The operation had been quiet for a while, and radio transmissions from London few and far between.

Heck, they hadn't even received a poem for a couple of weeks. Kinch was dozing off, dreaming of writing a poem himself, when static from the shortwave roused him.

He grabbed a pencil and the small clipboard and took down the information, and signed off with a brief "Wilco". He looked up to see LeBeau coming into the radio room, bearing a mug of coffee.

"Thanks, Louis." He sipped the hot beverage gratefully as he re-read the information he had just received from London. LeBeau looked over his shoulder.

"A new assignment, _mon ami_?"

"Nope."

"Could it be, perhaps, another poem?"

"Yup."

"Then let us share it with the others, _vite_!"

Kinch grinned. "Okay, Louis, but don't blame me for the inevitable reaction."

The two of them emerged a few minutes later from the bunk entrance and found Newkirk and Carter engaged in a game of gin rummy. Carter laid his cards on the table and said with satisfaction, "Gin!"

Newkirk flung his own cards down on the table in disgust, and then looked up to see Kinch with a piece of familiar blue paper in his hand. "Well, 'ere we are, then! A bit o' sabotage planned for us, perhaps? Does London believe the Adolf 'itler Bridge is due for another bit o' renovation?"

"Not quite," said Kinch.

Hogan emerged from his office, rubbing his eyes. "About time for lights out, isn't it, guys? Newkirk, if you can't beat Carter at gin, I suggest you find a new line of work. Kinch, what have you got there?"

"It is a new poem!" LeBeau said, almost bursting with excitement.

The men quickly gathered around Kinch and he held them off. "Careful, guys! Don't want to rip the paper so we can't read it."

"Read it out loud, Kinch," Hogan suggested.

Kinch sighed. "Okay, Colonel. You asked for it." He struck a pose, and declaimed:

Perceiving that Marie was in earnest  
And the poetry contest was a go  
My mind burn'd with the force of a furnace  
To come up with a verse or more, to show

A man of the land, whose Indian blood  
Gives cause for mirth; yet burn bright in his soul  
Visions of fireworks: ammo dumps once stood  
But stand no more; there is just a big hole.

Mild manner'd is he, a friend through and through  
Forgetful and clumsy, and a bit shy  
But for him to play Kraut generals who  
Can intimidate Klink: a piece of pie!

So, poetry for Heroes? I'm on it  
And thus Carter I praise with this sonnet.

There was a stunned silence for a moment, then Hogan said blankly, "What was _that_?"

"A sonnet," said Kinch with a straight face. "By Sgt. Moffitt."

Carter looked around at the others in bewilderment. "That was about me?"

"_Oui_, but do not take it too much to heart," said LeBeau consolingly. "She did say you played Kraut generals well."

Newkirk put an arm around the bemused sergeant's shoulders. "She 'as you pegged all right, Andrew," he said. "But Shakespeare she ain't."

Kinch snickered.

Hogan spoke up then, with a voice of authority. "Okay, men. You knew the risks we were taking here. Sure, London said they'd be sending us poems. They never said they would all be _good_ poems!"

_AN: Nothing has been edited by the publisher, Marie1964._


	5. Chapter 5

"Message from London, Colonel," Kinch called as he climbed the ladder from the tunnels up to Barrack 2's common area. A collective cheer rose from the men as they gathered around the open bunk and watched his assent.

"Alright men, give him some room," Hogan shouted, unable to hide the glee in his tone. "What do they want us to do this time, blow up a bridge, kidnap a General? You know our motto at Stalag 13; no sabotage job too big or too small."

Kinch winced. "I hate to disappoint you, Colonel, but this isn't about a mission."

Hogan's jovial mood evaporated. "Don't tell me. Not again."

Kinch nodded, trying to ignore the ravenous eyes watching him. "I know how you feel."

Hogan sighed as his second in command climbed over the bunk and handed him a piece of notepaper. "Great, another would-be Henry Wadsworth Longfellow."

Newkirk rubbed his chin. "Who?"

"William Shakespeare to you." He shook his head. "I wish I understood London's reasons for having us read poetry. Still, it's better than doing nothing, like we've done lately."

"I wonder who they've sent a poem about this time." Carter asked, peering over Hogan's shoulder. "Kinch? Baker? Or me again? Boy, that would be swell."

Newkirk slapped the sergeant's shoulder. "Hey! What about me, or the rest of us?"

Hogan rolled his eyes. "Hold it, fellas. I haven't even read it yet."

"Well, hurry up, boy!" Carter said, shrinking back under his commander's glare. "I mean, sir."

Hogan unfolded the paper and glanced at Kinch's writing. "This one's a limerick written by Canadian Hogan's Fan."

Newkirk frowned as a RAF aircraftman cheered. "Blimey, Gibbons, I thought you were an Englishman."

The red headed boy shrugged. "I am, but I lived in Saskatchewan for a few years when I was a lad."

Hogan started to make a smart remark, but changed his mind as the faces around him frowned at the interruption. "Here goes."

There once was a man named Klink

Who was known by all as a fink

Klink thinks he's in charge

Unless Burkhalter's at large

Then quiver and kowtow does Klink

Newkirk smirked as a round of applause broke out through the barrack. "I hate to admit it, but I don't mind that one. Not, that it's good, mind you."

LeBeau marched toward Hogan and stood at attention. "Mon Colonel, request permission to read this for the Kommendaunt's birthday."

"Read what for my birthday?"

Hogan started as Klink, flanked by Schultz, appeared by his shoulder. That's what I get for forgetting to get someone to watch the door. "Really, Kommendant, it's nothing."

Klink jabbed his finger toward LeBeau. "What were you saying, cockroach? A poem for my birthday?"

The Frenchman put his hands in his pockets and shuffled his feet. "Well, oui, but…"

The Kommendaunt rubbed his hands, a grin reminiscent of a half melted jack-o-lantern spreading across his face. He reminds me of a chipmunk I saw once, Hogan thought.

"Do you know what day it is?" Klink gushed. "Today happens to be my birthday."

"No, it can't be," Hogan said. "Tell me, Kommendaunt, how does it feel to look so young for a man your age."

Klink waved the compliment away. "Stop it, Hogan, you're embarrassing me. Now, let me hear the poem."

Hogan put a hand on the German's shoulder and motioned to the door. "Really, it's not ready for your ears yet. Give Corporal LeBeau a chance to polish it up for you."

Klink pushed the American away. "Silence! Corporal, recite!"

LeBeau took a deep breath and gave the performance of his life, almost losing his straight face as the Iron Eagle's expression changed from gloating pumpkin to a grumpy feline that just swallowed a lemon.

"Thirty days in the cooler!" He snapped when the short corporal finished. "Schultz, take him away."

Schultz saluted. "Jawohl, Herr Kommendant!" He turned to Hogan. "Personally, I thought it wasn't half bad."

Klink scowled. "One more word out of you, private, and you'll be performing guard duty at the Russian front. Dismissed!"

Schultz took LeBeau's arm as Klink spun on his heels and left the barrack, muttering under his breath. "Alright, you heard the Kommendant. Come along."

Lebeau pulled away. "Aww, Schultz, be a pal."

Schultz raised his free hand. "What do you want me to do? I have my orders." He clicked his tongue. "Besides, you shouldn't have been so nasty to the Kommendant, especially on his birthday."

"Well, they say you hurt the ones you love most," Carter chirped.

Schultz snorted as he led LeBeau away. "Jolly jokers."

LeBeau glared as he passed Hogan to the door. "Be sure to thank London for me."

Schultz closed his eyes and shook his head. "Please LeBeau, I know nothing. Let's keep it that way."

"Take good care of him, Schultz. We don't want our prized chef damaged." Hogan called as he closed the door behind them. "Well, that's one problem solved."

Kinch frowned. "Come again, Colonel?"

"Now we have something to do. We can focus on figuring out how to get LeBeau out of the cooler until the next mission or poem comes along."

A note from CHF: Not a brilliant work by any means, but I hope you got a chuckle out of it.


	6. Chapter 6

Not long after LeBeau got out of the cooler, Baker came up from the tunnels and announced the news that a new poem had arrived. 

"Not another one," LeBeau sighed from the stove. However, he secretly had to wonder if it was about him. 

"Well, maybe this one won't get you into trouble, little mate," Newkirk replied, giving the Frenchman a pat on the shoulder. 

"I'll go get the Colonel," Kinch offered and got up off of his bunk. He knocked on his CO's door. After hearing the word "enter," he popped his head in and said. "Sir, we have a new poem." 

Hogan looked up from the book that he was reading. "Who is it about?" he asked and went out the door. 

"I don't know. Baker hasn't said yet," Kinch replied as they walked over to join the rest of his friends in the main part of the barracks. 

Sgt. Baker lingered around the stove until LeBeau handed him a mug of coffee. He sat down at the table and sipped his drink. 

"Who's this one from?" Carter asked as Baker handed the slip of blue paper to their Colonel. 

"A girl by the name of Hogan Macgyver," he replied with a grin once everyone was there. "And yes sir, she has that name because you are her favorite. It's a nickname of hers." 

Their leader shook his head, hoping that it would hide his slightly pink face, and read the poem to himself. 

"What kind is it, Colonel?" Kinch asked. 

"I believe it's an ode," Hogan said, trying to think. "Then again it could be free style. I'm not sure though." 

He read it out loud for his men to hear:

Whoever we are  
Whatever we do  
We'll never forget  
What you've helped us through

From bombing trains  
To fixing planes  
Even if it rains  
Trouble down on you.

In the darkest night  
Or in someone's plight  
You always come through  
To help us. It's true!

We just want to say,  
To show and express  
From the depths of our hearts  
Thanks for being you.

"Blimey! You know what trouble she could 'ave gotten us into if this had fallen into the wrong 'ands?" Newkirk exclaimed in surprise. 

"A lot, boy!" Carter replied, his eyes wide. 

"Oui, but it is about all of us. Even if it isn't the best thing we have heard," LeBeau commented and went back to cooking. 

"She did have a migraine when she wrote it," Baker pointed out. 

"We do all of those things and she is thanking us for it," Carter said thoughtfully after a few minutes. 

"That's no excuse for possibly getting us in to a 'ole lot of ruddy pain," Newkirk mumbled. But he was pleased that someone was saying thank you. 

"She didn't mention our names or code names," Kinch said suddenly. He turned to his CO. "Is it alright if I have this one, Colonel? I kind of liked it." 

Hogan smiled and gave him a nod. Kinch took the piece of paper and sat down on his bunk to read it again. 

"I wonder what the next one is about," LeBeau said, looking up from the meal that he was creating. The others shrugged and thought the same thing.

Author's A/N: I honestly don't know what style my poem is. From what I've read it closely resembles an Ode, but it could also be free style in some ways. This is what happens when I do a rare thing called writing poetry.

Marie1964's AN: Slight grammatical errors were corrected.


	7. Chapter 7

_So, just how did LeBeau get out of the cooler? Here's the story._

The look in Sergeant Kinchloe's eyes said it all.

"Not another one!" Colonel Hogan complained. "Doesn't London know there's a war on? We've got better things to do!" He snatched the message from the radio operator's hand and looked at it. Surprised, he raised an eyebrow at his second-in-command.

"Well, it could be worse," he commented. "It's not a limerick, or that other one, a sonnet." He shuddered involuntarily. "Just who is this joker, anyway?"

"Some guy named 80sarcades," Kinch replied, then snorted. "I wonder where they all get these crazy author names from?"

Hogan shook his head, then stared at the paper in disgust. "This is too much, even for London!" the Colonel exclaimed angrily. "We could be blowing up a bridge or doing something useful. Right now, I'd even take raiding Klink's underwear drawer!"

The Sergeant looked Hogan in the eye. "Sir," he said, formally, "there are some things that are above and beyond the call of duty. Even for Stalag 13."

Hogan chuckled, his anger dissipating. "Well, at least we know who it goes to," he said. "Interesting, how they used his name..."

"LeBeau's still in the cooler," Kinch interrupted. "You going through the tunnel?"

The Colonel merely smiled. "Why go through the back way when you can use the front door? All you need is the right key..."

He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a chocolate bar.

-

Not surprisingly, Sergeant Schultz let the American officer into the camp cooler. LeBeau, pacing his cell, was happy to see him.

"Klink hasn't changed his mind, has he?" the Frenchman asked hopefully.

"Not yet," Hogan said; LeBeau's face fell. "Dirty Boche," he muttered.

"However," the Colonel went on, "we have another poem. This time, it's for you."

"For me!" LeBeau happily exclaimed. "Where?"

Hogan took the piece of paper from his pocket. As he reached for the bars, a harsh voice stopped him.

"Stop right there!" Major Wolfgang Hochstetter, the leader of the Hammelburg Gestapo, ordered as he walked up to the cell. Schultz was right behind him. "Colonel Hogan," the Gestapo officer demanded, "just what are you doing here? This is a restricted area!"

"Visiting one of my men," Hogan indignantly replied. "And I'd like to thank you, Major. That was really nice of you."

Hochstetter was taken aback. "What?" he sputtered.

"You used my name when you came up," the Colonel explained. "Usually, it's that 'What is this man doing here?' line that you like so much!"

"And that's a lot better than the one you used before," LeBeau interjected. "There's just only so many times you can scream 'Who is this man?' before it gets old..."

"BAH!" Hochstetter roared. He then spied the piece of paper concealed in Hogan's hand and snatched it from his grasp. "Just what is this?" he commented, unfolding the sheet. "Now I have..."

His voice trailed off as he read the poem. To the shock of LeBeau and Hogan, the Major's eyes actually seemed to tear up. In a subdued voice, he read it aloud:

Life is in motion, and so is this play  
Everyone has a part, and something to say  
But without this one, life would surely be hard  
Everyone in Barracks Two would probably starve  
A round of applause, for the master of the strudel  
Unknown soldier not; just the first letters of this doodle.

LeBeau grinned in triumph even as Hochstetter turned to Schultz. "Let him out," he ordered.

"But Major," the Sergeant said hesitantly, "the Kommandant ordered-"

"I don't care what he wants," Hochstetter growled. "Open the cell." With a jingling of keys, Schultz unlocked the barred door and opened it. The Gestapo officer then turned his eye to LeBeau. "You're free to go."

"Thank you, Major," Hogan said. For the first time ever, he meant it. Hochstetter looked at him for a long moment.

"We are on different sides, Colonel," he said calmly, all traces of his usual bluster gone. "And I still believe that you are the saboteur I'm looking for. But this..." He held up the paper, then gave it to LeBeau. "We Germans are a sentimental people," he finished. Without another word, the Major turned and fled the cellblock; Hogan could have sworn that he heard a stifled sob coming from the end of the corridor.

Or did he?

"Colonel Hogan," Schultz said, confused. "What just happened?"

"I really don't know," Hogan replied, perplexed. He glanced over at the paper in the Frenchman's hand, then shook his head in wonder. "But I'd really like to see what poem we get next!"

_AN: Slight edit of grammatical error—"its" has become "it's."_


	8. Chapter 8

_Another take on how LeBeau got out of the cooler_

"Uh! Won't you stop pushing?" 

"Sorry, sir, it's kind of dark in here." 

"You have a flashlight." 

"Oh, yeah, right." 

Hogan shook his head as Carter finally flipped the switch on the flash. "Now would you please stay behind me?" 

"Yes, sir." 

Hogan crawled forward, hoping they put LeBeau in the cell with an adjoining tunnel. It was about lunch time and he knew LeBeau would just die if he had to eat the rations given to cooler inmates. He reached the end and pressed his ear to the removable block. The guard tapped away, then he slipped open the block. Hogan gasped, startled to find LeBeau's face staring down at him. "Don't do that!" Hogan whispered. 

"Do what, mon colonel?" 

"Expect me." 

LeBeau laughed, but quickly shut his mouth with his gloved hands. "Sorry." He rubbed his hands together. "I knew you'd bring me lunch, mon colonel." 

"Yeah." Hogan turned to Carter and grabbed the wrapped leftovers LeBeau had cooked earlier that day for breakfast. 

"Ooh, merci! Now if only I had a sprig of parsley, a nice dusting of powdered sugar, then this breakfast could become—" 

"Just eat it, okay?" Hogan started retreating into the tunnel, then chuckled. 

"See you again, mon colonel." 

"I'll get you out. Don't worry." 

"Before the next poem!" LeBeau whispered after him. 

"I'll try." Hogan closed the block. 

"How are you going to do that?" Carter asked. 

Hogan pushed the light away from his face. "Simple."

HHHHH

"Thirty days is just too much. It's cruel and inhuman!" 

"Hogan, you're not going to change my mind!" 

Hogan stood before Klink's desk, arms crossed. "But don't you see, sir? It's for you own good to get LeBeau out quickly." 

"I'm not listening!" Klink went back to his papers. 

"Well, fine." Hogan stepped towards the exit. "I won't be around when Burkhalter chokes on LeBeau's new recipes." 

"Hogan, come back here!" He wagged his finger. "What's this about Burkhalter?" 

Hogan smiled, seeing how true was the poem by Canadian Hogan's Fan, or more, how inept Klink was to not see himself fulfilling its prophecy. "You see, sir," Hogan said cooly, "if you keep on treating Burkhalter to LeBeau's prize cooking, he's going to come expecting it. So if LeBeau decides he could get revenge by being a little sub par, well . . . " 

"But a Frenchman could never stand poor cooking!" 

"Thirty days in the cooler kind of throws the nationality out of you." 

Klink cowered. "What about that poem?" 

"What about it?" 

"I can't let him get away with that!" 

Hogan put on a far-off look. "How does this sound? We invite you to a dinner of succulent cold meats. And for dessert, strudel a la Schultz. Bon appétit." He smacked his lips. 

Klink cringed and waved his hand back and forth, looking disgusted. "Very well. The Frenchman can go." He wagged his finger sharply. "After one night!" 

"Ah, come on!" 

"One night, and that's final! Diiiismissssed!" 

Hogan saluted and left. Well, you can't win them all, he sighed.

HHHHH

Hogan rejoined the group in Barracks 2. "Got it down to one night." 

"Losin' your magic touch, sir?" Newkirk smiled from where he sat at the table. 

Hogan smirked at him and sat opposite him. "Deal." 

"Am I in?" Carter scrambled up to the table. 

Suddenly, Kinch came out of the tunnels, a blue paper in his hand. "Hope you guys aren't busy." 

"Never too busy for London." Hogan jumped up. "What'd they say?" 

"It's another poem." 

Newkirk and Carter gathered around to look at Kinch's paper. 

"It's from someone named inhonoredglory," Kinch read. 

"Blimey, look 'ow they bungle the English language like that. No spaces!" 

"I think poetry does things like that to people," Carter mused. 

Hogan took the paper suddenly. "Hey, aren't you guys forgetting something?" 

They stared at him momentarily. 

"Oh, I remember." Carter looked a little embarrassed. "I think LeBeau would like to hear it with us." 

"So we'll just 'ave that paper sit there, tempting us, all night long?" 

"There's a better way, Newkirk." Hogan moved past them and flipped open the bunk. "Candlelight reading anyone?" 

The threesome looked at each other. "Huh?"

HHHHH

Hogan slid open the block again. This time, LeBeau wasn't staring down at him. "Psst!" he whispered. 

LeBeau scrambled down, smiling. "Merci, mon colonel. Schulz told me the good news." 

"Don't mention it." Hogan rustled the blue paper. "Another poem." 

"Perfect!" LeBeau said. "Schultz is one guard. We'll have at least an hour. It's his nap time." He rubbed his hands together. "What's the poem?" 

"Slide in." Hogan slipped back into the tunnel, and the five of them arranged themselves within the space, with LeBeau leaning against the tunnel side of the block.

"I'll pass on reading," LeBeau joked. 

"It's a pantoum," Kinch noted, "which means there's a certain pattern of repeating lines throughout the poem, and in the end, the last line mirrors the first one." 

"I've never heard of that one," Carter said, getting interested. 

"I wonder who it's about," LeBeau leaned over to see the paper in Hogan's hand. 

"Okay, let's find out." Hogan shined the flashlight on it and read.

Though different, they are one  
When he takes the task at hand  
Their mission's never done  
As he orders the command

When he takes the task at hand  
He waits for London's call  
As he orders the command  
He sets a table for them all

He waits for London's call  
As he crafts a rod of fire  
He sets a table for them all  
While he works with lock and wire

As he crafts a rod of fire  
For the duty that is all  
While he works with lock and wire  
They carry out the call

For the duty that is all  
Their mission's never done  
They carry out the call  
Though different, they are one.

Kinch smiled. "I think it's about all of us." 

Carter was trying to put things together in his mind. "I didn't hear my name." 

"I think your line is the rods of fire," Hogan pointed out. 

"Really? That's sure a far-out way of saying dynamite!" 

"Then I get the table line?" LeBeau piped. "I hope everyone doesn't think I'm just here to cook." 

"Not every poem is perfect, Louis." Newkirk smiled, nudging him. 

Hogan patted him on the shoulder. "It's just a facet of you. There's a facet for all of us." 

"Well, okay." LeBeau smiled. "I'm still waiting for the one that does describes me," he laughed. 

"At the rate they're coming in," Kinch said, "it shouldn't be long." 

LeBeau crossed his arms. "Now what do we do? I'm not going back in that cell so soon." 

" 'Ow 'bout a game of cards?" Newkirk rustled a deck. 

"You brought those?" Carter asked, incredulous. 

"You never know when they might come in 'andy." 

Hogan sighed, leaning on the tunnel walls. "I think inhonoredglory should have put 'He works with cards and dice.' " 

"We all have a specialty, sir," Newkirk said with a grand seriousness. 

Hogan smiled. "And we all have a part to play." He winked at his men and at Newkirk. "Deal."

_AN: Slight edit of a potential naming error—"Lebeau" has become "LeBeau."_


	9. Chapter 9

"Clerihews," said Kinch, as he emerged from the tunnel.

"Gesundheit," replied Carter, not looking up from the delayed action timer he was putting together, taking up the whole of the table for the task.

"No, Andrew, I said clerihews," Kinch sighed patiently. "We got another entry for the poetry competition, a set of clerihews." He held up a sheet of paper. "Short biographies, four lines, irregular length and metre."

"Any good?" asked Newkirk, putting out his hand to take the message.

Kinch held it out of reach. "You'll have to wait and see," he replied with a grin.

"Blimey, that don't sound promising." And Newkirk leaned back  
again. "LeBeau, you'd better get the colonel out here."

"Get him yourself, I'm busy." LeBeau, sitting on Carter's bunk, brandished the torn shirt he was attempting to repair.

"You know, you're going about that entirely the wrong way," observed Newkirk, regarding the torn seam with a condescending smirk.

"Well, if you don't approve, maybe you would like to do it," said LeBeau.  
"Far be it from me to deprive you of productive employment."

"Or to do anything useful yourself. Typical English, you're all lazy from birth. It's no wonder the British Empire is in trouble."

"At least we've still got an Empire..."

"Okay, can it, you two." Kinch broke into what was shaping up into a serious international incident. "Carter, call Colonel Hogan."

"Colonel Hogan!" yelled Carter, without even raising his head.

"That's very good, Carter," muttered Newkirk. "Can you do it again, when I get my hearing back?"

Hogan emerged from his quarter. "Something up?" he asked brusquely.

"Another one of those messages, Colonel," replied Kinch "You know - the poetry competition."

"This is getting ridiculous," sighed Hogan. "Okay, let's have the worst of it. Kinch, you can do the honours."

Kinch straightened up, and in a voice trembling with suppressed amusement, began to read aloud.

Colonel Robert E Hogan  
has no need of a slogan.  
His team of saboteurs and spies  
is something he doesn't want to advertise.

"That's not so bad," remarked Newkirk cautiously. "At least it makes some kind of sense."

Carter frowned over his work. "It doesn't scan," he said, after a few moments of deep thought.

"It doesn't have to, Andrew," Kinch explained. "It's..."

"Clerihew, right?" Hogan interrupted. "Yeah, thought so. Well, it could have been worse. File it somewhere safe, Kinch." He turned to go back to his office."

"Hang on, Colonel," said Kinch quickly. "I haven't finished." He glanced at Carter with a sly grin, then fixed his eyes firmly on the paper as he continued the recital.

Andrew Carter  
would probably seem a lot smarter  
if he hadn't so much fascination  
with detonation.

"Well, that ain't very nice," protested Carter.

_Maybe not, but it's probably true._ Nobody said it, but the thought was in everyone's mind. Carter looked round suspiciously.

"Oh, okay, you all think it's funny, right? Well, I bet there's something there about you guys, too."

"There sure is, Carter." Kinch's eyes moved on to LeBeau, who met the look with a sudden sense of unease.

"I'm not afraid," he said, raising his chin. "Go ahead - read it."

Louis LeBeau  
has never much cared for _blanquette de veau_.  
He prefers something he can sauté,  
as it sounds a bit naughté.

There was a moment of stunned silence, then the entire barracks, except for one man, dissolved into hysterical laughter.

"Oh, that's bad. That's just..." stuttered Newkirk, almost incoherent.

"I'm pretty sure that's outlawed by the Geneva Convention," added Hogan, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Carter didn't say a word; he was too far gone to catch his breath.

LeBeau scowled at them. "_Oui, oui, très amusant._ I'll bet that writer is English. They have no shame - no shame at all." He waited till the hilarity died down, then added, "Well? Is there any more?"

Kinch nodded; but it took him almost half a minute to steady his voice enough to go on.

Peter Newkirk  
doesn't exactly eschew work,  
But he'd rather contemplate  
than participate.

Newkirk sat bolt upright, speechless with indignation.

"Nailed you alright, buddy," sniggered Carter.

LeBeau's eyes were still sparkling, but no longer with rage. "I've changed my mind. The writer is not English at all. Only a Frenchman could see the truth so clearly."

"That's going too far," growled Newkirk, finding his voice. "It's insulting - it's character assassination - and it's an imperfect rhyme. I'm writing to the Times about this."

"You can't, Newkirk," Hogan put in firmly. "This whole operation is still classified top secret. Anyway, you'd never bother. Too much like hard work."

Newkirk folded his arms, and continued to grumble under his breath.

"Is that it, Kinch?" Hogan added, as Kinch folded the sheet of paper and put it in his pocket.

"That's all." Kinch replied with a shrug.

"Hey, that's not very fair," remarked Carter. "How come you get out of it?"

"That's right." Newkirk came out of his sulks to join in the attack. "Come on, Kinch, there has to be one about you, too. Let's have it."

Kinch shook his head. "I guess the writer couldn't find anything to rhyme with Kinchloe," he said, in a slightly dejected tone. "Or doesn't think I'm important enough. Anyway, I missed out."

He headed back towards the tunnel entrance, but stopped as Hogan spoke. "Kinch, I think maybe I should hang onto that message. Give it to me, I'll keep it in my office."

"Uh...sure, Colonel," said Kinch evasively. "But it's pretty hard to read, I scribbled it down in a hurry. I'll make a fair copy for you." And he vanished into the tunnel before anyone could renew the discussion.

He sat down at the radio desk, drew the folded paper from his pocket, and began transcribing; four verses, in his neatest handwriting. The fifth he omitted, but he smiled as he read it over again. The writer had indeed struggled with finding a rhyme for his name, and in the time-honoured tradition of literary composition, had fudged it.

James Kinchloe, known as Kinch,  
finds running the secret radio a cinch,  
but having to always be sensible  
is incomprehensible.

At the bottom of the page was the last fragment of the transmission; a set of initials.

d.o.t.w.

Kinch didn't know what they stood for, but he knew one thing. If they ever appeared on any communication again, he'd be careful who he showed it to.

AN: The poems are supposed to be centered, as stated by the author. However, Microsoft Word is currently being difficult.

Also, I only have one more poem in the anthology, and possibly a couple of my own. I know everybody is probably busy with _FanFic Court_ right now, but if another poem pops into your mind, please don't hesitate to send it/them in!


	10. Chapter 10

Hogan strode out of his quarters to grab a fresh cup of joe and was surprised to see Kinch sitting at the common table, playing gin with Carter and LeBeau.

"Kinch? What are you doing up here? I thought you were supposed to be manning the radio."

Kinch frowned. "Yes sir I was. But London called in with an unusual request, and that's why I'm up here."

"An unusual request...?" Hogan looked around the room. Something was amiss. A card game in progress without their most prominent player? "Uh fellas, where's Newkirk?"

Kinch nodded. "That was the unusual request. They wanted Newkirk to receive the incoming message instead of me. I was told to head up to the barracks and wait here for him to bring the message to you."

Hogan looked at Carter and LeBeau, who each shrugged in puzzlement. He sighed and joined his men at the table. "Okay then. I guess we wait."

A few minutes later, the bunk entrance to the tunnel opened up to produce a grinning Newkirk. "Gov! I've got an urgent message for you from London! 'ere! I think you'll find it very interestin'."

The Colonel took the piece of paper and quickly read it. "Well we sure are getting an education on the many different types of poetry!" he proclaimed.

"How's that Colonel?" asked Carter.

Hogan began to answer when he was interrupted by Newkirk.

"Because this one's a cinquain!" crowed the Brit.

Carter turned to give Newkirk a scowl. "You don't look like the Colonel to me!"

"Oh leave off Andrew! Wait until you hear who..."

Hogan cleared his throat loudly and raised his eyebrows at his eager English Corporal, who wisely took the hint and shut up.

"This one's been a long time coming. I can understand why Newkirk is so excited. Okay fellas, listen up. Here it is:

Radioman.  
Steadfast, reliable.  
Always waiting patiently.  
Worthy second in command.  
Kinch."

"See? Ain't it grand?" Newkirk came round to slap Kinch on the back. "Fits 'im to a tee!"

Kinch shook his head in embarrassment. "Oh c'mon Peter. I think whoever wrote that exaggerated quite a bit."

"No mon ami!" LeBeau chimed in. "It is completely true. There have been so many times when you have had to stay behind while we carry out a mission. I have felt bad for you, and yet I have been grateful at the same time. You show us what true courage is. You must stay behind yet you never complain, unlike some people I know..." he cast a calculating gaze over at Newkirk.

"Oy! Don't talk about me mate Andrew like that Louie!" Newkirk rolled his eyes and walked over to punch LeBeau gently on the arm.

"Gee Louis! I didn't know you were talking about me! Do I really complain..." Carter cut his protest short when both Newkirk and LeBeau sighed loudly and turned to stare at him in disbelief.

"Never mind Andrew! 'e wasn't talkin' about you!"

"Oh. Sorry. I just..."

Hogan decided to step in before things escalated as they were wont to do. He didn't want anything to distract from Kinch's moment. "Okay fellas, knock it off unless you want me to have to send you to bed without your supper!"

"Yes mum!" Newkirk snorted before he could stop himself. He then realized what he had said and quickly produced a patently innocent, blank expression that silently proclaimed Who me Gov?

Hogan knew that look well. "Especially you Peter!" He got up and moved to stand behind Kinch. "I happen to agree wholeheartedly with the sentiments of this particular poem. I couldn't ask for a more capable second. We owe you more than we could ever tell you Kinch. Thank you for being there for us." He handed Kinch the poem.

Kinch felt his face flush and hoped his friends couldn't tell. He really didn't feel comfortable with the adulation, but was grateful his commanding officer and friends had such confidence in him. He raised his hands to forestall any further comments. "Thanks sir, fellas. I'm just trying to do my job."

"You do it well mate. Thanks!" Newkirk winked at him before he jumped up onto his bunk.

"He's right Kinch. We couldn't do anything without you. I mean, if we had to depend on Peter to man the radio..." Carter cut himself off at Newkirk's stony glare.

LeBeau decided to steer the conversation in a less sensitive direction in deference to Kinch. He jumped up from the table and moved over to the stove. "Who wants some fresh coffee?"

"I'll take some Louis," Kinch replied. He looked at his French friend, grateful for his discretion. _Thanks Louis!_

The men sat and sipped their coffee in companionable silence, each glad for the other's friendship and loyalty.

Author's Note: As you have probably noticed, the author of this submission was not revealed. Submit your guess as to the identity of the author in a review and let's have some fun!

AN: That was the original author's note. Since it's been a while, I'll give you a hint. The author has submitted to this anthology before. Also, since Thanks Louis! didn't have any quotation marks, I took it to mean that Kinch was silently thanking him. Thus, I italicized it to emphasize thought.


	11. Chapter 11

Kinch came up into the barracks, a piece of paper in his hands. As he hit the button to close the opening to the tunnel, Colonel Hogan came out of his office.

"What have we got Kinch? Something new from London?" he asked as he got a cup of coffee then sat down at the commons table with the rest of the men.

Kinch sat down, looking at the piece of paper again. "Nope, not even close."

Newkirk looked incredulous. "You can't mean…"

"Yup, it's another poem."

"Who is it about this time?" Carter asked.

"It's about LeBeau."

"Sérieusement? About me?" LeBeau asked, looking over at Kinch.

"Yes, it's about you. Waikiki23 wrote it for you. It's a lyrical poem," Kinch replied, a smile on his face.

"Go ahead and read it Kinch," Hogan replied, looking over at his second in command.

"Okay here goes:

To the man who is always to himself true,  
For his friends more than himself he cares.  
A man whom you can always look to,  
One who never puts on airs.

To the man, though small he may be,  
His personality larger than life.  
Though at times with others he may disagree,  
With no one he continues to keep strife.

To the man who continues to sew for all,  
And for everyone for meals he is the cook.  
On time always is he for roll call,  
Whether it be by hook or by crook.

This man, LeBeau is his name,  
Who's favorite subject is that of love  
This man with whom there is no shame,  
This man LeBeau whom we all think so highly of.

"Wow, LeBeau, she must really like you," Hogan said, noticing the blush creeping onto the little Frenchman's face.

"Yeah, I guess she does," LeBeau's voice sounded dreamy. He looked over at Hogan. "Can I keep this one Colonel? Please?"

"Yes, you can."

"Merci, Colonel. Merci," LeBeau said, taking the paper from Kinch.

"I hope we get an assignment before this poetry contest gets too far out of hand," Hogan said, standing and heading back to his quarters. 

AN: For those of you who are wondering, the mysterious author of the last poem was… whirlyite. Also, slight grammatical errors [its has become it's] have been corrected in this chapter.


	12. Chapter 12

LeBeau, newly released from the cooler, stood by the stove preparing the evening meal. The Colonel had come into the common room and had joined the ongoing game of cards.

Carter looked over at his CO. "Uh, Colonel, sir? When are we going to get something to do? I've got some real beauties down in the tunnel, just waiting to be used!" He sighed as he added a card to the pile in the middle of the table.

"Patience Carter my boy. Since nothing's come through lately, I'm feeling a bit antsy myself!" I must be really desperate, he thought to himself. Even a poem would do!

As those thoughts ran through Hogan's mind, Kinch was at that very moment meticulously transcribing the words he heard from London onto his ubiquitous blue tablet. He was concentrating so hard that he didn't see Olsen slip past on his way up the ladder to the barracks.

Hogan turned at the sound of the bunk mechanism closing expecting to see Kinch. He was surprised to see Olsen instead. "Olsen? I didn't expect to see you back for another day or two."  
"I finished early sir." He pulled a set of papers out of his jacket pocket and handed them to the Colonel. "Here's the information you requested." He turned to head to the coffee pot.

Hogan unfolded the papers and glanced through them. "Maybe this will bring us a job real soon!"

Carter's ears perked up at that comment. "Really? Gee, that'd be great boy! Uh, I mean Colonel, sir."

Olsen sat down beside Hogan with his coffee cup in hand. "Been a little quiet around here lately?" He took a sip of coffee. "Guess I didn't miss much then."

Newkirk gave Olsen a disgusted look. "Quiet! It's been bloody borin' round 'ere! The only excitin' thing that 'appened was that me little mate 'ere," he indicated LeBeau with a nod of his head, "got thrown in the cooler!"

"The cooler! LeBeau?" Olsen immediately looked over at the French Corporal.

"Oui mon ami," replied LeBeau. He shrugged his shoulders in a 'c'est la vie' gesture and returned to his cooking.

"But why?" Olsen's curiosity got the best of him.

"Because ol' Klink 'as no sense of 'umor!" laughed Newkirk. LeBeau threw him a dirty look as he continued, "All because of a poem!"

"A poem? You guys have got be kidding me!" Olsen nearly did a spit take as he tried to stop laughing.

Carter waded into the conversation, "Yeah, there's a poetry contest going on and the authors have been sending them to us through London! There's been some pretty good ones too!"

"Are they serious sir?" Olsen gestured to Hogan.

"I'm afraid so," Hogan answered. "It seems like every time Kinch appears from the tunnel he's got a new poem in his hand." The tunnel bunk rose and Hogan looked over at it as Kinch came up the ladder. "And here he is now. What've you got for us Kinch? I'm hoping it's a mission."

Kinch grinned and glanced at Olsen. "Nope, I'm afraid it's not a mission Colonel."

LeBeau looked over his shoulder as Hogan scanned the note. "Is it another poem Colonel?"

Hogan sighed. "It looks like it. Gather round boys."

Olsen eagerly leaned in closer. "This I've just got to hear!"

Newkirk chimed in, "What kind of poem 'ave we got this time Colonel?"

"Let's see." Hogan paused for a moment. "Looks like it's a simple rhyming poem this time."

Carter was anxious. "Come on Colonel. Tell us, who is it about?" If he was fortunate, it would be another poem about him.

"Okay fellas listen up." The Colonel began reading:

Resides with the others in Barracks Two,  
Especially loyal to his friends,  
Is a major part of Hogan's crew,  
Always for his country to defend.

Speaks the native language well,  
Helps the Colonel disrupt German plans,  
So ones that learn none can tell,  
The one known as The Outside Man.

"Wow! That's a good one about you Olsen!" Carter smiled. "Who wrote that one?"

Kinch hid his smile because he already knew the answer to that. He also knew that Newkirk wouldn't react well to the revelation of the author's name.

Hogan smirked, "It looks like our new author is trying another poem."

Newkirk was getting frustrated. "Blimey Gov! Who is it?"

"Let's see..." Hogan stalled for dramatic effect. "It says that the author is...buggleston, aka whirlyite's sister!"

"Now there's a name for ya!" Newkirk laughed.

"I wouldn't be so sure Newkirk," chuckled Kinch. "That's the author who wrote that tanka poem about the Colonel."

It finally dawned on the Brit and he got up from the table so fast, everyone cracked up laughing.

"Bloody Nora! That's the author what had Kinch almost tackle me to the floor!" He stepped back a few feet from everyone just to be safe. (1)

"Oh come on Peter, it wasn't that bad!" laughed Kinch.

Hogan raised his hands, "Okay guys calm down before Schultz decides to pop in and see what's going on." He handed Olsen's information to Kinch. "Kinch here's the intelligence Olsen brought in. Please transmit it to London right after dinner."

"Right sir!" Kinch pocketed the information.

Hogan clapped his hands twice. "Speaking of dinner, Newkirk, you and Carter clear the table so we can eat."

"Colonel?" Olsen stood up and approached Hogan. "May I keep the poem?"

Hogan handed it to him. "Sure, just keep it in a place where the Krauts won't find it. I'd hate for my outside man to be ratted out by a poem!"

They both laughed and sat down to dinner with the rest of the crew.

AN: (1) This refers back to Chapter three.


	13. Chapter 13

Just when Kinch thought he could get away from them, they came back to haunt him. He picked up his cell phone in the cabin, where he and the others were enjoying their annual PBA camp-out. Out of all of them, thanks to his embracing of the latest communication technology, he had been the first one to learn how to use the newfangled device. Imagine his surprised when he heard a familiar French voice, bounding with enthusiasm, waking him up at 5:00 in the morning singing a tune:

One is Newkirk, Two's LeBeau,  
Three is Carter, Four's Kinchloe  
Fearless leader is named Hogan  
Stalag Thirteen's Heroes

For picking the locks and opening safes  
Playing cards right to keep guards away  
Popping car tires with a pencil sharp'ner  
Choose the British magician

Mending socks and sewing costumes,  
Planting flowers and parachutes,  
Cooking up pizza, strudel, and dinners  
The French get information

Blustering madly as Adolf Hitler  
Diving for lost code books in the well  
Blowing up trains and bridges and tunnels  
But this Indian's bow is useless

Sitting and waiting patiently  
For the next message to come in  
On wire tap, phone, or radio  
Call the Prince from Detroit

When London asks, he makes a plan  
If it's impossible, he's still your man  
You think you're smart, Kommandant, it's true  
But the joke's on you!

Olsen speaks German, so he works outside  
Garlotti, Slim, and Walters know how to hide  
Thomas is the man to help sabotage  
And Wilson is the medic

There are more, who go unnaméd  
Medals unawarded, go unclaiméd  
But these diggers and metal-shop workers  
Keep bus'ness running smoothly.

One is Newkirk, Two's LeBeau,  
Three is Carter, Four's Kinchloe  
Fearless leader is named Hogan  
Stalag Thirteen's Heroes

Cooking up, cooking up, cooking up pizza  
Cooking up, cooking up, cooking up strudel  
Cooking up, cooking up, cooking up dinners  
The French get information

Blowing up, blowing, blowing up bridges  
Blowing up, blowing, blowing up trains  
Blowing up, blowing, blowing up tunnels  
This Indian's bow is useless

Plotting and planning and scheming, too  
Too bad, Kommandant, he can get 'round you  
You think you're smart; let's have a Bronx cheer  
And the joke's on you!

"Louis, is that you? What are you waking me up so early for?" Kinch asked, grumbling. "You know I'm not as young as I used to be."

"I'm sorry, mon ami, but as soon as I received this letter I just had to share it! Apparently, word about our Poetry Contest was leaked in a commercial during our CBS series and—"

"Poetry contest? Cor, not that again!" a British voice interrupted, having listened in on the line.

"Pierre, have you been listening in all this time?" LeBeau asked.

Dead silence.

"Boy, what are we doing talking on the telephone and the cell phone when we're right in the same room?"

"Louie started it! 'E's the one waking us up at all 'ours of the night, just because a latecomer decided to send in a poem!"

"Excusez-moi, but I happen to think it's a magnifique poem!"

"So, who found out about our missions and decided to send in the poem?"

"Somebody by the name of sparra-music, boy! I mean Colonel. I mean—"

"I know what you mean, Carter. Now, we have a long day ahead of us for reading stories. And—" Hogan shook his head in disbelief. "Next time, if we're in the same room, could we at least _talk_ to each other?"

There were four agreements in three distinct accents, before the rest of them went to bed. All, that is, except for LeBeau, who decided to keep the poem for himself.

_Edit: Poem is by sparra-music, story is by Marie1964._


End file.
